At nine o’clock on Saturday morning the Burbank Avenue police station was quieter than usual, but there were still a few cars in the parking lot. Rachel recognised the number plate belonging to Officer Brading.

Mike Perez was waiting in his subterranean lair. He was wearing workout gear, and he had brought coffee and iced doughnuts. Rachel looked askance at the pastries.

‘Doughnuts, Perez; seriously?’

‘I’m pretty sure they’re organic.’ He grinned.

‘Gluten-free too, no doubt.’

Rachel accepted the coffee gratefully and sat down next to him at the computer monitor. ‘Officer Perez, now that I’m officially off the Stiles case, and returning to London, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for all your technical help and support.’

Perez cocked an eyebrow as he munched on the doughnut. ‘But?’

‘I’d like your help with one last thing. One second –’ she took out her phone, pulled up the selfie of Heather/Stacey and emailed it to Perez – ‘check your email.’

He opened the photo on his monitor.

‘That’s the profile picture from the CasaMia account that was used to book the rental of Phoebe Stiles’s apartment around the time she died. The same photo was used on a separate CasaMia account to rent the apartment of a girl called Tiffany Kovak last December.’ She gave Perez a second to catch up. ‘She went missing around the same time, and was later found murdered.’

Perez stared at the screen. ‘Wow.’

‘If it’s a coincidence, it’s an extremely striking one.’ Rachel said blandly.

‘But you don’t think it is.’

‘Of course I don’t. There are just too many similarities between Phoebe and Tiffany. And I’ve only scraped the surface: if I had time and resources I’m sure I could prove the link.’

‘And there could be more. More victims targeted via the app.’ Perez swung back from the screen to look at her.

‘Exactly.’

‘So how can I help?’

‘I’d like your friends at the biometric lab to compare this face with the face of the girl in the shampoo commercial. The one they’ve already proved is not Phoebe Stiles.’ She took a swig of her coffee, thinking for a few seconds. ‘Did you pass that result on to Gonzales?’

‘I did, but he said it proved nothing, except that Phoebe died before the date of the shoot. Before February second.’

Rachel screwed up her face in exasperation. ‘But doesn’t he want to know who that girl in the video is?’

‘Not relevant, according to him, since the boyfriend did it.’

‘What do you think?’

Perez swung his chair slowly to and fro, as if to calibrate his thoughts. ‘What I think and what I can do are two different things. Privately, I think you may be on to something. Officially, the investigation is closed pending Wyburgh’s trial, so I can’t devote any of my time to it. Officially.’ He stressed the last word.

‘But this is evidence in the case,’ Rachel said, stubbornly.

‘Trouble is: if it’s evidence, then it’s effectively evidence for the defence. I’m not in a position to pursue it.’

Rachel gulped down the dregs of her coffee and stood up. ‘Okay, I understand. I just had to ask.’

‘But…’ Perez went on, ‘There’s nothing to stop me sending this to the lab off the record, as it were. In my own time.’

‘Would you do that?’

Perez winked at her. ‘Sure. I can call in a favour or two.’

Rachel sighed. ‘There’s a deadline. I only have till tomorrow.’

‘Leave it with me.’

---

The evidence room and supplies storeroom were at the back of the building on the ground floor; Rachel remembered seeing officers go in there to fetch latex gloves. She found it, and knocked on the door. Nothing.

Cautiously, glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being observed, she opened the door and went in. Rows of open metal shelving lined the room, filled with labelled boxes. The older ones were cardboard, the newer ones clear plastic. The forensics supply cupboard was definitely in here somewhere. She worked her way methodically around the edge of the room.

‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

Officer Brading stood in the doorway.

‘I need gloves, Officer, and evidence bags.’

He gave Rachel a long look with his sad brown eyes but did not demur, reaching onto a high shelf and handing her boxes of both. She helped herself, stuffing them into her own bag.

‘So,’ she said to him, ‘case solved. I guess I should be congratulating you.’

His face was sombre. ‘Wyburgh’s definitely putting in a not-guilty plea, so a jury will get to decide.’

‘Will he be remanded until then?’

Brading shrugged. ‘Probably not. Bail hearing’s on Monday morning.’

‘So where is he now?’

Brading hesitated. She knew he didn’t want to answer her, and she knew exactly why he didn’t want to. The time they had spent together had made it easy for her to read him. After a few seconds he relented.

‘He’s right here in the cells, ma’am.’

‘May I speak to him?’

Brading kept his eyes fixed on a point slightly above her head, his right hand resting reflexively on his pistol. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘Officer.’

‘Ma’am?’

She forced eye contact and held it. ‘There’s a whole lot more to this case than a slighted boyfriend and a crime of passion. I know it, and I know you know it. So let’s cut the crap.’

He shifted his weight fractionally, hand still on his holster, but said nothing.

‘Look, I’m about to go back to the NCA in London. My part in this is over. So, off the record, tell me what you really think. I know you have good instincts, and that they’re speaking to you, even if you’re keeping a lid on them.’

Brading sighed, looking like a fifteen year old being taken to task by his mother for leaving dirty socks under the bed. ‘I don’t know who killed Ms Stiles, but I don’t think it was Wyburgh.’

‘Despite the forensic evidence found at his home?’

‘Despite the forensic evidence, yes ma’am.’

‘So,’ She reinstated the uncomfortable eye contact. ‘Why do we find ourselves here?’

‘Because Captain Dench is retiring at the end of the summer and he just wants a quiet life. Wants the case tied up before he goes. So he leaned on Gonzales to charge the suspect.’

This was the frankest thing that Brading had ever said, as well as his longest utterance. Rachel stared down at the empty evidence bags while she adjusted her expectations. ‘I need to talk to Wyburgh,’ she said finally. ‘It’s not going to change anything at this stage – I’m getting out of here – but for my own satisfaction I just need to eyeball him. I can always tell.’

‘Your instincts, ma’am.’

‘Precisely.’

Brading scrunched up his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said, exhaling hard. ‘Just five minutes. But I know nothing about it. And I didn’t give you the key.’

He handed her the key, and for the first time ever she saw him smile.

---

Matt Wyburgh was sitting on the edge of the bench that also served as a bed, dressed in prison sweats and shoes with the laces removed. He hadn’t shaved in days, and there were magenta circles underneath his eyes. He raised his head when Rachel came into the cell, but his expression remained blank. He was clearly too exhausted to experience an emotion as piquant as curiosity.

Rachel sat down next to him on the vinyl mattress and extended a hand, which he did not shake. ‘Hi, Matt. I’m Detective Inspector Prince.’

The meaning of his look was clear: I don’t care if you’re Santa Claus.

She knew she had to employ extreme caution in what she said now. If she told him that she believed he was innocent, and that she might have evidence that someone else killed Phoebe Stiles – if she even implied it – the ramifications would be huge, catastrophic even. His lawyers could claim the LAPD had at best been incompetent and, at worst, framed Wyburgh. And the fact that she was a British police officer who currently had no jurisdiction carried international implications. So she had to be very, very careful.

He wouldn’t make eye contact, but she plunged on regardless. ‘I’m from the police in London, here to help the LAPD because Phoebe Stiles was a UK citizen.’

He did not look up, or react to the sound of Phoebe’s name.

‘I’d like you to tell me what you know, or remember, about what happened around the twentieth of January.’

‘I’ve been through it over and over. I’ve made a statement.’

‘Please, Matt. What do you think happened?’

The use of his first name caught his attention.

‘Is this some kind of trick? Because I’m pleading not guilty? You guys hoping I’m going to say something to incriminate myself?’

There was a glimpse of anger amid the outright weariness.

‘Look, I’m not writing this down, and I’m not recording it.’

‘You could be wearing a wire.’

Rachel smiled slightly, stood up and lifted her T-shirt, high enough to reveal all of her bra. She turned slightly so he could see the back view. Wyburgh flushed slightly, but did not avert his gaze.

‘Could be in your pants.’

She unzipped her trousers and lowered them as far as decency would permit, then pulled up the legs to show there was nothing attached to her calves. ‘Feel free to pat me down if you like.’

‘No, it’s okay.’

He relaxed fractionally. Rachel sat down again and they faced each other.

‘Just tell me anything that comes to mind, in your own words. That’s all I want.’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

I know, she wanted to say, I know you didn’t.

‘How did you and Phoebe meet?’

‘In the Furnace. It’s a club in West Hollywood.’

‘And how did you feel about her?’

‘I really liked her, you know, she was great. She had that weird British accent; I thought it was cute.’ He shrugged. ‘She was fun to be around.’

‘Did you love her?’

‘Man…’ Wyburgh leaned back against the wall and ran his hands over his face. ‘Not really. I mean, I loved hanging out with her and stuff, but not like, love love.’

‘You weren’t in love with her?’

‘No. Fuck’s sake, we’d only known each other a few weeks. That’s why this is all so fucked up.’

‘So you weren’t heartbroken when she ended it?’

‘No, man! I mean, sure, it seemed kind of odd the way she went dark on me like that. I wanted to talk to her, but it was really just to check she was okay. She was supposed to be staying with me when she rented out her apartment, and as far as I knew she didn’t have any place else to go. She didn’t really know anyone in LA. That’s why I went over there when she wasn’t answering the phone.’

‘And the weapon they found in your apartment?’

‘They’re saying it was a marble doorstop from the hallway of her apartment. I’d never seen the fucking thing before, but they said it was in the corner of my garage, propped against the wall.’

‘You didn’t see it there?’

‘I only know last time I went in the garage it wasn’t there. I know that for a fact.’

‘And when was that?’

‘Just before I went to Reno. I was putting my surfboard away.’

‘So how could it have got there? Did anyone else have keys?’

‘My folks. And I had a set cut for Phoebe because she was staying over quite a lot and it just made things easier, you know?’ There was the ghost of a smile. ‘Put them on a funky little keyring with a P on it. I told the cops that, but they said the keys weren’t found at her apartment. They disappeared.’

‘So the doorstop definitely wasn’t there before your Reno trip?’

‘For one thousand per cent sure. Whoever put it there must have known I’d be away.’

‘You’re saying it was planted?’

Wyburgh rolled his eyes wearily. ‘Come on, Detective, do I really seem that dumb? I go to my girlfriend’s place, hit her over the head with something from her own apartment, then I take it back to my place, covered in her blood, and leave it against the wall of the garage in full view, blood and all? Nobody would do that unless they were completely stupid, or completely insane.’

His look challenged her. She couldn’t fault his logic. She had known criminals rely on logic to stand up their stories many times, but this was different. She believed him; it was as simple as that. The casual sexual attraction he described did not fit with a calculated brutal slaughter, and he was right: the weapon would either have been left at the scene or tossed.

‘Indeed,’ she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. Fingerprints, she was thinking. Tell me about fingerprints. She didn’t dare ask, because he would be assuming she knew about that detail already.

‘They didn’t find a single fingerprint, but the cops just said I must have wiped them. Like I’d wipe off every single print but somehow leave all the blood right there. Makes no fucking sense.’

I know, Rachel wanted to say. I agree. Mustering her neutrality, instead she said calmly. ‘Your defence lawyers will no doubt be looking into all of that.’ She stood up and extended her hand. ‘Good luck. I mean it.’